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by ChimaeraKitten



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, minor spoilers for star trek into darkness, my second fic in as many months with warm/cold as a Thing, some editing we enter a coma, they've both done bad things but they love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-19 17:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13708860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChimaeraKitten/pseuds/ChimaeraKitten
Summary: Cassandra loves her little brother. Likewise, Damian loves his older sister. Together they might even be able to love themselves.





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**Author's Note:**

> it says so in the tags, but I'm repeating it here: minor spoilers for Star Trek Into Darkness (I'M SORRY JERSEY)
> 
> inspired by Audrey's secret salt; Cass's feelings about the Cain name are shamelessly cribbed from her.

Damian found her on the roof.

Cass had long since lost track of how long she’d been out here, but the way her fingers and nose felt numb suggested half an hour at least. She could have gone inside, to the warmth and softness of the overstuffed couch in the family room, but she liked the way the cold leeched the feeling from her very bones and left her numb to the core.

The numbness was better than feeling.

Still though, she drummed her fingers on the stiff shingles, working life back into them. She would need them for the trip back inside, whenever she chose to undertake it.

 _Undertake_ , she thought. She liked and hated the word all in one. It did not mean what it said, but it meant something nothing else could say. The implication of not just _doing_ but _working to do_. Applying effort.

She was so distracted by her musings that she didn’t notice the footsteps until they were just a few yards away. She looked up. Smiled.

“Damian.”

Now there was a word she liked with no hate attached. It had taken her time to learn to say it, properly, fluidly, with the emphasis on the correct syllables, but she’d done it, and now it rolled off her tongue easily. It was important, after all.

“Cain,” he said.

She shook her head to shake away the sting. It was not his fault. “No, Wayne.”

He hesitated. “Cassandra. Do you intend to rejoin the movie or remain out in the cold?”

“Both.”

“Well then I shall—what?”

“I will… _rejoin_ … the movie eventually,” she said, “But I like the cold.”

He wrinkled his nose, tucking his chin into his coat. He’d taken to wearing hoodies more recently, but this was a proper wool coat. She could tell he thought it was much too cold out for anything else. “Cold is terrible. It makes things shrivel up and die.” He said it like he’d said it before, too someone else.

“But so does heat,” she insisted, “Too much of a good thing.”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Well if you don’t intend to come inside…” He turned to go.

“Wait,” she said, tapping the space next to her with numb fingers, “stay. Give me your warmth.”

He looked skeptical, but sat down.

Quick as a flash, she reached over and put her numb fingers on the back of his neck, under the collar of his coat.

He yelped and twisted away, glaring.

She flashed a smile, somewhere between her Black-Bat-predator-smile and her practiced-for-galas-smile. “Had to.”

He grumbled and settled back down, a bit farther away this time. “I don’t see why you like it out here.”

“If feels—“ not quite good “—better than bad.”

They lapsed into silence for a few minutes. Damian wanted to say something, but the words were caught in his throat. Cassandra waited.

“I saw you, when you left,” he said at long last, “you looked upset.”

She frowned. She hadn’t realized anyone was watching when she slipped quietly out of the family room.

“I was upset,” she said, knowing he would see through a lie.

Confusion crossed his face, for all that he’d known that already. “Why? I know that… that character died, but he’s just an actor. It shouldn’t…”

For all Cassandra was bad with words, she knew what came next. _It shouldn’t hurt you._

She shook her head. “That didn’t hurt me.”

His eyebrows drew together. “Then why…”

Cass tried to articulate it. “The man. The one that died…” His name eluded her.

“Admiral Pike?”

She nodded. “His… friend…”

“Spock?”

She nodded again. “He…” Words failed her again. She held out her hand in an approximation of the action the character did.

“The telepathy?”

She pulled her knees up to her chest. “It would’ve hurt him. To do that while the other man died.”

“And that bothered you.”

It was not a question, but she answered anyway. “Yes.”

Damian withdrew into himself. Cass could see it, but he still continued the line of questioning. “Why?”

“Because… because he didn’t cause it. He didn’t deserve it.”

“And if he _had_ caused it?”

Cassandra looked over into Damian’s sharp, discerning eye. She forgot, sometimes, how quick he was. How much he could guess from a few words. It was a skill for him. Something he’d trained more in recent years, both for survival and to adjust to life in Gotham. It didn’t come naturally to him as it did to her, but she admired his dedication.

“Richard told me,” he continued, “that your abilities allow you to see a person’s pain as well as their intentions.”

Cass nodded, curling and uncurling her fingers.

“Do you think that people who cause pain deserve to feel it?” he asked, lowering his gaze to her fretful fingers.

“Maybe. Yes.” She whispered.

“You think you do. Deserve it.”

This was solid ground again. “Yes.”

He met her eyes for the barest instant, before looking away across the manor’s lawn. “You think I do.”

“No!” Cass gasped, horrified. “No, no, no, no.”

“You think, that since you hurt people in the past, you deserve everyone’s pain now. I’ve hurt people too. How is that any different?” His voice was defiant, but the way he trapped his lips between his teeth spoke of fragility.

“It’s different,” She said, leaning forward and clenching her fists. “I should have known better. _Been_ better.”

“You were eight. You killed one man and swore off killing forever.”

“Once was many!” She said, voice rising in pitch, warbling as it always did when she got upset.

“When I turned eight," he said, cutting off her frustration at its source, "I failed to beat my mother again.” His eyes blazed. “My grandfather was disappointed in me for failing, though he disapproved of the test in the first place. That night, he sent three assassins to my bedchamber. I slaughtered them all.”

Cassandra recoiled involuntarily at the chill in his voice. At the way his body had gone stiff and emotionless.

“I could have spared them.” Damian continued, as if he were saying ‘ _I could have done the dishes,_ ’ “I could have said killing them was beneath me. Grandfather would have accepted it. But I was angry at having lost again, and in my rage I did not hesitate to cut them down.” He paused, and here at last some sort of emotion returned to his voice, and he allowed his hands to curl into fists. “The youngest of them, he was new to the League. Younger than I am now. He likely hadn’t even truly finished training.” He looked at her. “By that point, I had already lost count of how many people I had killed. And yet I continued for two more years.” He took a deep breath. “So you see, Cassandra. If you hate yourself, you should hate me too. And far more.”

For a second, she didn’t move, frozen in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. Then she found her arms again and reached out, pulling him in to her chest.

He was stiff for a moment, but then his breath shuddered and he reached up, hesitantly returning the hug.

“No. Never,” she whispered into his ear, “You are a hero. You fight to _stop_ the hurt. Always.”

“So do you.” He said, and she realized why he’d forced out that sickening story. It was meant as a twisted, barbed form of comfort. _Anything you can break, I can break worse._

She tucked his head under her chin. It was a bit awkward, as he was her height now, but that didn’t stop her. No matter how big he got, she could protect him.

“We should go inside. It is still cold out. And the movie will be nearly finished by now.”

She released him, planting a small kiss on his forehead before he could move completely out of reach.

“Thank you.”

He stood, and after fighting with himself for a moment, offered her a hand up.

She took it, squeezing gratefully.

Warmth was returning to her fingers before they even got back inside the house.

**Author's Note:**

> as much as I will scream "WRATH OF KAHN DID IT BETTER" from the rooftops (sorrynotsorry, Jersey) that particular bit of Into Darkness was *wonderful* fic-fodder.
> 
> come scream at me at [@chimaerakitten](http://chimaerakitten.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


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